


Ain't Nobody Gonna Take My Life

by theemdash



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Brothers, Face Punching, First Aid, Gen, Navel-Gazing, Protective Diego Hargreeves, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 02:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theemdash/pseuds/theemdash
Summary: Brotherhood means putting up with their shit, punching them in the face, and giving them a place to sleep when they don't have one. Yeah, it still means that even if you're a Hargreeves.





	Ain't Nobody Gonna Take My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to momebie for the quick look before posting!

The sound of a body falling was fairly distinct—Diego had dropped enough bodies to know. A few feet was a thud, like a punching bag hitting the mat; a couple dozen feet usually came with a crack of some sort, unless someone was _really_ lucky; more than that usually involved wet sounds, so specific they were foreign until you’d heard them and then they earwormed worse than Klaus’s music.

The body dropping through Diego’s window rustled as it slipped through the casement and then meeped when it hit the floor. No way Klaus had forgotten the distance since the last time he’d crawled through Diego’s window, and yet.

“Klaus,” Diego groaned from bed. He swore he was going to put shelves under every window and fill the sills with so much shit Klaus couldn’t wiggle his tiny ass through it all.

Klaus sprang up, his coat a susurrus sliding in the near dark. “Oh, hey, _bruder_. Catch you at a bad time?” His voice lilted through drugged euphoria, catching Diego somewhere between annoyed and protective.

Diego pressed the heel of his palm into his eye, grinding away the oncoming headache. “I _was_ sleeping.” He was almost sleeping. He’d come in from patrol less than an hour ago, stored his knives and harness, eaten cold take out, and crawled into bed, planning to pass out and avoid any more weird shit. Especially his weird-shit brother.

“You don’t sound sleepy.”

Something in Klaus’s voice pulled Diego to sitting, and when Klaus staggered it wasn’t his usual insobriety tilting his balance.

“What happened?”

“To the lights? I don’t know.” Klaus weaved to the opposite side of the support column, slipping out of Diego’s line of sight for a second. “Did you pay your electric bill?”

Diego let the silence speak for him.

“Oh. Oh? This?” Klaus’s hand flashed past his face, and kept going, rolling into a story about a screaming Italian woman, but Diego was out of bed, pushing Klaus’s face into the moonlight and getting a good look at the bruises blossoming through his makeup.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“I told you—” He started again on a story that didn’t make any more sense in the retelling, but this time included a few pills that filled in enough of the blanks for Diego.

He hit the lights, glad when Klaus squinted against the glare. “You’ve got to stop that shit.”

“That’s just what Savio said.” His voice cracked around the sentence, splintering in Diego’s exhaustion.

“Did you even fight back?”

“I’m more of a lover than the other thing.”

Diego growled and shoved away from Klaus, pacing to the bed and back. Of course Klaus didn’t throw a punch. He never did. If someone was attacking him, he deserved to be attacked, or whatever other shitty rationalization Klaus made. There was a reason Dad always made Klaus the lookout.

“I don’t care what you are. I care that you keep showing up here with bruises.” Two weeks ago it was hand marks on his forearms. Three months ago a black eye. Nearly a year ago a broken thumb and a deep desire to avoid the hospital. 

Klaus pulled his shoulder forward, rested his chin on it like some preening model, and batted his eyelashes at Diego. “I didn’t know you cared,” he purred.

“I care,” Diego snapped, because he had to care. He didn’t have the luxury of not caring about Klaus. It wasn’t just injuries that drove Klaus through Diego’s windows. It was every time Klaus was too high or too drunk to remember where he was supposed to be sleeping and had ended up in his brother’s bed. Allison was across the country, Luther and Vanya were dicks, and Five and Ben were gone; Klaus fell on him because Diego was available.

Well then, fuck it. If Diego was Klaus’s keeper by default, he wasn’t going to put up with this bullshit of taping Klaus back together every time someone broke him.

“You cogent enough to head upstairs?” It was three in the morning, not even the earliest riser would be in the gym yet.

“I’d really rather just plant my face in your pillow.” He giggled around the words, face turned to Diego’s bed. “It’s softer than it looks.”

“Come on, man. No one’s doing this to you again.” He pushed Klaus to the stairs, snagging a shirt on the way and pulling it over his head while continuing to shove Klaus up to the gym. Klaus’s running commentary washed over Diego, and he lazily snagged Klaus’s collar to keep him from turning down the hall. Business as fucking usual.

Inset security lights kept them from tripping, but the gym was dark and would have to remain so if Diego wanted to keep his job and his apartment.

“There’s more room.” Klaus spread his arms, spinning in a circle, his black, fur-lined coat swirling around him, boots falling heavy on the concrete floor. He waved his hands into the air, shuffle-dancing over to the ring, fluttering like a moth drawn to the yellow splash of light. “You ever think about moving up here? Much more spacious.”

“You ever think about getting a place of your own instead of sleeping on couches and alleys and getting thrown into rehab centers?” He didn’t ask why Klaus didn’t just go home. He knew the answer to that one.

“Just like that? I don’t think it works that way.” His eyes flicked to Diego’s left and then he came back to where Diego was setting up a punching bag. His voice trailed as he sauntered past. “Like you know about being an adult.”

Diego gave an experimental punch to the bag, tossing his full skepticism at his brother. “And you do?”

“Certainly more than some people.” Klaus smiled a fuck-you smile that Diego returned with a middle finger. “So, can I go to sleep now?”

“No.” Diego caught Klaus by the shoulders and patted them and then his cheeks, trying to get him to focus and sober up. “Come on. Over here.” Diego gave a one-two to the bag, bouncing on his feet. “You remember training, right? It hasn’t been that long.” A decade or more, sure, but even Klaus had gone through defense training. It was hard to forget what was drilled into your body.

Klaus snorted. “Like _falling_ off a bike.” Klaus said it like he was correcting something Diego had said, leaving Diego with the feeling that he’d missed the last stair in their conversation. He tried to tune out his unease and push through like it was a normal sparring session.

“Exactly.” Diego patted Klaus’s shoulder again. “This is just like that except with your fists.”

“And with fewer ghosts?”

Gooseflesh prickled the back of Diego’s neck. “Right, with fewer ghosts.”

“Mmhmm.” Klaus waggled his fingers to Diego’s left and then flipped the bird, tracking it left to right back to Diego’s apartment.

Some days Diego wasn’t sure how much was the drugs and how much was just Klaus. The line between Klaus and Number Four seemed pretty thick most days, but then he’d say or do something like that….

Diego shook it off (including the creeping feeling that a ghost Klaus could see and Diego couldn’t had been watching them) and clapped his hands to recapture Klaus’s distractible attention. “All right. We’re going to start with your stance.”

He seized Klaus’s hips, getting an ooh-la-la response which he ignored, and then positioned Klaus so he was distributing his weight equally.

“You feel that? That balance that comes from your core?”

“Mostly I feel your hands on my hips and am remembering how we’re not actually related.”

“Gross.”

Klaus’s gaze flicked up to Diego, his kohl-ringed eyes for once focused. “You’re the one touching me.”

Diego rolled his eyes and let out a breath in a hiss. “I’m _teaching_ you.”

“I’m _learning_.” Klaus shifted his weight side to side, like he was about to break into a dance, so Diego decided to roll with it.

“Right, that’s good. The whole point of being balanced is so you can shift your weight quickly and dodge. Then strike.” Diego gave Klaus a light jab to the shoulder, barely making contact.

“Ow,” Klaus whined with an expression full of offense.

“See, that’s when _you_ hit _me_.” Diego pointed first to Klaus and then to his chest. He waited for the hit, before recalling all the times Klaus had begged off their hand-to-hand training, and that whenever Diego and Klaus had been paired, Diego had taken Klaus’s distraction as an opportunity to fling spitballs at Luther.

Maybe he shouldn’t have let Klaus off the hook so many times back then.

“It’s sweet of you to think I need this, but all I really need is a bed. And maybe twenty bucks, but I can get that out of your wallet in the morning.”

Yeah, he shouldn’t have let Klaus off the hook so many times back then.

“Keep your fingers out of my wallet.”

Klaus trailed his fingers delicately over the unbruised side of his face. “But if they’re not in your wallet, where will I keep them?”

Diego held up one finger, trying to forcibly stop every brain cell trying to fill in the gaps of Klaus’s question. “Shut up.”

“Like that ever works.”

“Just once.”

Klaus wrinkled his lip. “Unlikely.”

“Christ. No wonder someone beat the shit out of you.” 

He knew the crack was the wrong thing to say as soon as he said it, but he didn’t have time to think of an apology before Klaus landed a punch right in Diego’s mouth.

They both yelled a string of curses, though Klaus’s echoed louder in the empty gym.

“You fucking punched me.”

“Your teeth are like _knives_.”

They were both bleeding, Klaus cradling his hand and Diego cradling his face.

“What the fuck? Shit. I have first aid in my apartment.” Diego tongued his teeth, making sure nothing was loose. He thought it was mostly Klaus’s blood on his face, but he couldn’t be sure. “You don’t fucking punch people in the mouth.”

“It’s such a big target.”

Diego flicked him off with his free hand, and Klaus just nodded his head around in response, his hands occupied with keeping his blood under his skin. He followed Diego down to the apartment without further encouragement.

Diego’s reflection showed a blood-laced smile, but Diego couldn’t find anywhere he was actually bleeding. He spat in the sink, and then again, careful not to swallow. He knew most of where Klaus had been, which was enough to know he should consider updating his tetanus shot.

Klaus turned in the kitchenette while Diego pulled out the bandages and rubbing alcohol.

“Hold your hand over the sink. Jesus. I’m gonna have to bleach my whole apartment.”

“Isn’t that what you do? Cleaning? You must be good at it by now.” His boot nudged the pile of laundry that hadn’t yet made it to the wash. “Supposedly.”

Diego barely kept himself from throwing the first aid kit at Klaus’s head. Like he needed that kind of judgmental shit from Klaus of all people—and after he’d punched Diego in the face!—but Klaus would crawl into bed and bleed all over the sheets if Diego didn’t bandage the wound. Klaus had never been squeamish about blood.

“Get over here.” He spread the kit out on the table, and had to swat Klaus’s uninjured hand to get him to let go so Diego could see the cuts across his knuckles. Damn, he was lucky Klaus hadn’t knocked out any of his teeth.

“Sit.”

Klaus spilled himself into the chair, legs sprawling to either side in artful angles that hardly seemed accidental. He kept his good hand tucked under his arm, the other one held out, hovering above the table. It was the stillest Diego had seen Klaus in months, maybe years. Possibly ever. Of course such control would be partnered with utter petulance.

He snatched Klaus’s hand, tugging it closer so he could clean and dress it. “Your right cross is pretty good. You actually remember that from training?”

“You act like I’ve never hit you before.”

The confidence gave Diego pause— _had_ Klaus hit him before? Fistfights with Luther were a dime a dozen, and he’d actually gotten into a scrap with Allison once or twice, but he’d never laid a hand on Klaus. That he could recall. Unless Klaus was counting the punch in their secret handshake.

“You remember something I don’t?”

Klaus tilted his chin up, hand steady despite Diego’s manhandling. “I know a lot of things you don’t.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to know about all that shit.” Diego poured the alcohol straight over the open wounds, finally breaking Klaus’s uncanny-as-hell calm. The flipped bird was deserved as was the spat German curse. Klaus shook his hand hard, but couldn’t break Diego’s grip. Naturally.

Diego gentled his movements—he’d made his point—and patted the stinging alcohol away, getting dirt along with the blood. “You even had a shower this week?”

“Savio had a clawfoot tub.”

Savio, the little shit. “Bet that made you feel right at home.” Bitterness seeped into Diego’s voice. After Diego moved out, he only stayed in places that had showers—cubical showers to close out the world and have a sweet moment of actual privacy. Even in communal showers, a cubical was an extra layer of privacy that let someone enter a bathroom without getting in Diego’s face. The thought of a bathtub sitting unguarded in the middle of a room made his skin crawl. “Were you staying there?”

“I was. Don’t think I am anymore.” Klaus laughed that high-pitched laugh that never ceased to annoy Diego. Klaus could laugh at any damn thing no matter how fucking tragic it was. 

“You’ll find another place.” Diego held up a finger, halting Klaus’s open, eager mouth. “Not here.”

Klaus pouted, but when he looked at Diego again his brow arched. “This is your fault.” He twitched his hand, clarifying what he was blaming Diego for. “You asked me to hit you.”

“When I was prepared for it.”

Klaus lifted his chin, looking down his nose at Diego, and replied in a frighteningly accurate imitation of Dad: “You will not know when the punch is coming, Number Two.”

Klaus could be eerie as fuck even when it wasn’t about the dead. “Well, the ol’ man was right about one thing, huh?”

“More than one thing. I’m the biggest fuck up, after all.” Klaus smiled widely, though he was slumped over the table again, shoulders practically around his ears, lithe body contorted at the mere mention of Dad. The left side of his face was fully visible under the bare kitchen light. The blue-purple bruise spreading from his jaw to his cheek was an affront. He met Diego’s eyes, twisting his head to the side and pushing back to drape his free arm over the back of the chair. The bruise blended into the shadows, the offense shrouded as soon as it was out of sight, making the damage to his hand look worse because it was visible and the pain caused by someone else wasn’t.

Diego wrapped Klaus’s hand the same way he wrapped his fists before a fight, like it would do something to hold Klaus together when everything in Klaus’s life was designed to shatter him apart. He could be worth something, if only he’d take a step. He’d rejected the identity their father had assigned him, but Klaus had never bothered to replace it with something other than mood-altering chemicals. There could be a real person masked by all those drugs, if he would just….

Diego clucked his tongue and shook his head, swallowing back every thought that sounded like their asshole father. Diego had left, Klaus had left, and still Reginald Hargreeves was present in their every breathing second. He was poison in Diego’s blood, threatening to get out every time his guard slipped and Diego unleashed everything he’d learned.

But dammit, Klaus’s habits were a _problem_ and one day Diego would be short one more brother.

“Promise me.” Diego pressed the tape firmly on Klaus’s hand. “The next time someone tries to kick the shit out of you, you attack them like they’re me.”

Klaus placed his battered hand over his heart, angelic peace smoothing the lines of his face. “Like I would ever hurt my brother.”

Diego rolled his eyes. They weren’t blood except in every way that counted. Klaus knew Diego’s scars. Diego knew Klaus’s fears. They’d hid under blankets together, ditched Dad and Pogo, dug worms out of the dirt and tucked them into Vanya’s violin case. Their mother loved them in the same way, quietly supporting their faults and guarding their weaknesses which they spilled on each other like shaken sodas. Vulnerabilities stuck to wet skin because those were their only real identities, and kids don’t know how to hide them but they sure as fuck know how to exploit them.

No matter what mask Diego wore now, his dumb siblings would always, _always_ be able to see right through him because he was still Number Two, still Dad’s weapon more than anything else because he was what Dad made him and Diego was just the disguise he wore to walk around in public.

But he _wanted_ to be Diego. He wanted to be better than Number Two, better than the superheroic automaton Reginald Hargreeves had raised him to be.

And when it came down to it, even when he was swallowing down every pill known to man, Klaus had an identity that had nothing to do with his number. It was something like a trash-gremlin drug addict, but technically, nothing to do with his number, so that was something.

“You’re an idiot,” Diego said, packing up the first aid kit and leaving it on the table. “I need to be up in a few hours. You take the left side.”

Klaus stood without any preamble or surprise, like he’d always known it would end this way. “But I like the right.”

“You take the left.” Diego pulled his shirt off, but left it next to the bed instead of tossing it at his pile of laundry, a quick way to pull himself back together. “And I don’t want to wake up with you all wrapped around me again.”

Klaus batted his goddamn eyelashes. “But you’re so warm.”

He deflected the pillow Diego threw at his head and started to climb into bed.

“Boots.”

“Oh.”

Diego pinched the bridge of his nose while he directed Klaus through getting ready for bed, including convincing him to rinse his mouth with mouthwash. Stupid family.

Finally Klaus snuggled under the covers, his hands tucked under his chin. “ _Gute nacht, bruder_.”

Diego hesitated a moment before muttering, “ _Buenas noches_.” He watched Klaus close his eyes, and then scooted closer, just in case Klaus needed him.


End file.
